staccato of Sophie Turner’s high-heel shoes in the background. Glancing down at her watch, she realizes it has just gone eleven and Sophie must be on her way to meet Tamsin for lunch. They’re supposed to be going over all of the finer details of their trip while Ashlyn is stuck taking Slade on a shopping trip for a new, more Ender James-friendly wardrobe. This is going to be a nightmare.
Ashlyn hates clothes. Unless they are comfy or sporting an array of basic earthen tones, she is not interested.
“I’ve got a watch, you know.” Ashlyn huffs as she grabs her purse and room key. The phone teeters the between her cheek and shoulder as she unzips the garment bag and pulls out her coat. Tucking it over her arm, she rushes to the closer and slips her feet into her slip-ons and then heads for the door. “I’m on my way. Chill out.”
“Okay,” Sophie says, sounding far too relieved.
“When have I ever let you down?” She jabs at the elevator button and waits for it to arrive.
“There’s always room for a first, and today is not going to be it. Just take Slade to Oxford Street. Buy him some nice clothes and come back. Piece of cake.”
“Says the woman who lives to shop,” she grumbles as the elevator dings and the golden doors slide open. “I’m heading down now. Gonna lose the signal—”
She pulls the phone away from her ear and sighs. Zero bars. “Too late.”
As soon as she reaches the lobby, Ashlyn waves at the doorman and crosses the street. After a few trips to London, she has managed to get a fairly decent lay of the land from the Covent Garden Hotel. She loves that she is only a few blocks away from the beautiful Royal Opera House or dozens of quaint shops and street performers.
At the corner, she turns to head for Charing Cross Road, which will lead her to Tottenham Court Road underground station where she will hang a left. From there, it’s an easy half-mile walk to meet up with Slade at the Oxford Circus tube station.
On a warm day, this walk would be lovely, but the breeze is a tad more blustery than Ashlyn cares for. By the time she reaches the first of the shops on Oxford Street, her nose has begun to drip and her cheeks feel a bit chaffed.
“How do I get myself talked into these things?” She groans as she attempts to push her way through the lunch crowd that has begun to spill out of offices and shops in search of a hot meal. Her stomach growls, reminding her that the bagel and jam she had for breakfast won’t hold her over for long.
Weaving through the proverbial rat race, Ashlyn mutters her apologies as she is bounced from person to person, feeling very much like a human pinball. She hates crowds, well, actually anything that involves five or more people at a time. Already she can feel sweat clinging to her palms and her heart palpitating in her ears.
As a child she was locked in a basement on accident during a friend’s birthday party. The music had been loud so no one heard her screams. To a five-year-old, a dark and damp basement is the epitome of every conceivable nightmare, and she was stuck down there for nearly three hours before her mother returned to discover her daughter missing.
When her mom informed her that she would never be allowed over to her friend Jean’s house again, Ashlyn didn’t put up a fight. Since that day, she has been terrified of closed-off spaces. Anything dark, suffocating.
Why she is terrified of large crowds, though, is a mystery. It’s true she possesses some rather extreme introverted tendencies, but that doesn’t account for why she gets nervous even sitting in a movie theater on opening night.
Ashlyn ducks her head, trying to use her hair for protection from the crowds. A couple years ago when she moved to L.A., she was talked into chopping off her hair into a stylish bob. For nearly six months she was terrified of going to the grocery store during the day for fear of being trapped by moms with shopping carts filled with
Ashlyn hates clothes. Unless they are comfy or sporting an array of basic earthen tones, she is not interested.
“I’ve got a watch, you know.” Ashlyn huffs as she grabs her purse and room key. The phone teeters the between her cheek and shoulder as she unzips the garment bag and pulls out her coat. Tucking it over her arm, she rushes to the closer and slips her feet into her slip-ons and then heads for the door. “I’m on my way. Chill out.”
“Okay,” Sophie says, sounding far too relieved.
“When have I ever let you down?” She jabs at the elevator button and waits for it to arrive.
“There’s always room for a first, and today is not going to be it. Just take Slade to Oxford Street. Buy him some nice clothes and come back. Piece of cake.”
“Says the woman who lives to shop,” she grumbles as the elevator dings and the golden doors slide open. “I’m heading down now. Gonna lose the signal—”
She pulls the phone away from her ear and sighs. Zero bars. “Too late.”
As soon as she reaches the lobby, Ashlyn waves at the doorman and crosses the street. After a few trips to London, she has managed to get a fairly decent lay of the land from the Covent Garden Hotel. She loves that she is only a few blocks away from the beautiful Royal Opera House or dozens of quaint shops and street performers.
At the corner, she turns to head for Charing Cross Road, which will lead her to Tottenham Court Road underground station where she will hang a left. From there, it’s an easy half-mile walk to meet up with Slade at the Oxford Circus tube station.
On a warm day, this walk would be lovely, but the breeze is a tad more blustery than Ashlyn cares for. By the time she reaches the first of the shops on Oxford Street, her nose has begun to drip and her cheeks feel a bit chaffed.
“How do I get myself talked into these things?” She groans as she attempts to push her way through the lunch crowd that has begun to spill out of offices and shops in search of a hot meal. Her stomach growls, reminding her that the bagel and jam she had for breakfast won’t hold her over for long.
Weaving through the proverbial rat race, Ashlyn mutters her apologies as she is bounced from person to person, feeling very much like a human pinball. She hates crowds, well, actually anything that involves five or more people at a time. Already she can feel sweat clinging to her palms and her heart palpitating in her ears.
As a child she was locked in a basement on accident during a friend’s birthday party. The music had been loud so no one heard her screams. To a five-year-old, a dark and damp basement is the epitome of every conceivable nightmare, and she was stuck down there for nearly three hours before her mother returned to discover her daughter missing.
When her mom informed her that she would never be allowed over to her friend Jean’s house again, Ashlyn didn’t put up a fight. Since that day, she has been terrified of closed-off spaces. Anything dark, suffocating.
Why she is terrified of large crowds, though, is a mystery. It’s true she possesses some rather extreme introverted tendencies, but that doesn’t account for why she gets nervous even sitting in a movie theater on opening night.
Ashlyn ducks her head, trying to use her hair for protection from the crowds. A couple years ago when she moved to L.A., she was talked into chopping off her hair into a stylish bob. For nearly six months she was terrified of going to the grocery store during the day for fear of being trapped by moms with shopping carts filled with
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